


Scars

by roonerspism



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Community: avengerkink, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 04:30:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roonerspism/pseuds/roonerspism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony thought that nobody would notice his old scars. Turns out he was wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: non-graphic self harm.
> 
> This was written for a prompt at the [Avenger Kink Meme](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com) on LiveJournal. The prompt was:
> 
> _There are scars on Tony's wrists._
> 
> _Someone notices them._

The first time he does it, he is angry beyond all measure. He sees red, and then he sees red again.

It should hurt. Somehow it doesn’t.

-

The second time he does it, he is sad. He remembers the twisted, beautiful release, and it seems like the only solution.

It hurts a little this time. He doesn’t care.

-

The third time he does it, he doesn’t even know why. There is too much information, too much emotion swimming around in his head. He craves control. He knows how to get it.

This time he prays for pain.

-

After a while, he loses track of how he feels when he does it. He loses count of how many times it’s happened.

He loses himself.

-

It is a Tuesday, 9:14pm. And unless you count the bottle of scotch, Tony is alone. He is feeling something, he thinks, but it is hard to define. A secret, searing ache. Some sort of sorrow? Fear, maybe. And he is drowning in drink.

His arm itches, burns. He rolls up his shirt sleeve, and surveys the wreckage. Fallen soldiers strewn across the battlefield, casualty after casualty; Tony runs a finger over the youngest victim he can see, and feels no kind of pity, no kind of regret. It is war, and the war is not yet over. There is one final play to be made. One last piece to move.

This time, when he does it, he feels everything all at once. He throws back the last of his scotch, smiles, and lets himself drain away.

-

Time is a good healer, but it cannot heal all.

Four years on, and Tony seems to have found himself again. The scars, however, remain. Paler and smoother than they once were, but visible to anyone who cares enough to look. Luckily, Tony thinks, nobody cares that much.

Almost.

Because there is always someone. The person you least expect to see who you really are. For Tony, this person turns out to be Bruce.

“Are you okay?” he asks one day. That is his opening line, before even, “Hello.”

Tony glances around suspiciously. They are alone. Bruce is looking at him expectantly. “Sure,” Tony says, shrugging. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Bruce has crossed the room in a flash. He places his hand on the table, close to Tony’s, and looks at the man intently. Tony swallows dryly, eyes flickering from Bruce’s hand to his face. Slowly, Bruce inches his hand across the table top. His fingertips touch Tony’s knuckles and Tony freezes. Either not noticing this, or ignoring it, Bruce slides his palm over the back of Tony’s hand.

Tony tries his best to stay calm. “If you wanted to hold hands, all you needed to do was ask,” he says, though he can’t seem to conjure his usual level of snark. Bruce smiles, but it is weak and slight, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. Not saying anything, Bruce then runs his hand up onto Tony’s forearm. He leaves it there, fingers curling around the limb gently.

“What-?” Tony begins, but Bruce interrupts.

“I know, Tony.” He squeezes Tony’s arm softly. “I know. So tell me. Are you okay?”

Tony coughs uncomfortably, but Bruce does not back down. Eventually Tony closes his eyes for a moment, and replies, “I am. But I wasn’t always.” He opens his eyes again when Bruce lets go of his arm.

“Show me?” Bruce asks, voice barely more than a whisper. He sounds almost afraid of what he’s said, but there is sincerity and sympathy in his eyes, and Tony finds himself unbuttoning his shirt cuff and pushing the sleeve up towards his elbow. He gazes down at his scars, then up at Bruce. He is surprised to see the man looks like crying.

“Hey,” Tony says, but can’t think of what should follow.

Bruce looks up at him. “I’m sorry.”

Tony feels so vulnerable, so exposed. So grateful that Bruce isn’t judging him. He reaches out and grabs Bruce’s wrist, pulling him closer and placing the man’s hand on his arm. Bruce can feel the light bump of the scars under his palm.

“It’s okay,” Tony says at length. “It’s okay now.”

“It’s never totally okay,” Bruce replies. “Believe me.” And Tony does. He knows about Bruce’s suicide attempt. They all do.

He aches, then. He aches in a way he has never quite ached before. He places his right hand on Bruce’s, against his arm. Bruce bows his head. They stand, frozen like that, for a time. Then Tony finally says, “You’re right. It’s not completely okay.” He feels as though he should add something to that, but nothing comes to mind. Nothing verbal, anyway.

Tony takes a deep breath, lifts his hand from Bruce’s, and places it on the man’s jaw. He tilts Bruce’s head up gently. They lock eyes, Bruce looking searching and unsure. Tony is unsure too, but he is careful not to show it. Instead, he leans in and presses his lips to the corner of Bruce’s mouth. Bruce tightens his grip on Tony’s arm, partly out of shock, partly as a gesture, a reply.

Tony pulls away, leaving the lingering rub of stubble against Bruce’s lips. Bruce squeezes the man’s arm again, then releases it. Tony smiles, soft but unusually sincere. He turns away.

Bruce licks his lips and grins as Tony walks from the room. True, things might never be truly okay for either of them. But he thinks Tony might just pull through.


End file.
